


hope is a four letter word

by invaderssayni



Series: it's been a long, hot summer [2]
Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: M/M, Nick has a crush on Gatsby, Possibly Pre-Slash, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invaderssayni/pseuds/invaderssayni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nick Carraway reads Leaves of Grass, and Gatsby invites him for lunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hope is a four letter word

**Author's Note:**

> So in the original version of this that only existed in my head, this story looked a lot different. Nick was reading on Gatsby's beach instead of on his own porch, for one thing, and there was significantly more awkwardness from Gatsby. 
> 
> I allude to Nick reading Whitman because, much like Jay Gatsby, I do not believe in subtlety. 
> 
> The book Nick is telling Gatsby about over lunch is unnamed for a reason. I couldn't think of a book from the period that involved obsession being mistaken for love and ruining everyone's lives, aside from canon, so I made one up. Sort of. I'm sure you can guess which (completely anachronistic) book I'm referencing. :V Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Part three is coming soon, hopefully sooner than this. Enjoy!

Nick Carraway wakes up one Saturday morning with the irresistible urge to read something, anything, that has absolutely nothing to do with investments and bonds. After some deliberation, he decides he’s feeling nostalgic, and so he takes his old copy of Leaves of Grass out onto his porch with a pitcher of iced tea. As much as he enjoyed poetry for its own sake back in college, his fondness for Whitman in particular has more to do with the particularly handsome study partner who had given him the book than any literary merits the collection of poems may have. And if that study partner had given him more than just a book of poetry that year, well, that was nobody’s business but his own.  
At nearly thirty years of age, he knows himself well enough that he’s fully aware of the link between his urge to read Whitman and his emotional state. He simply chooses to ignore it. He’s certain that nothing would come of acknowledging his feelings in this case, at least not outside of his highly active imagination, so why bother?  
Nick takes a sip of his iced tea and attempts to direct his attention back to his poetry. He keeps getting distracted halfway through verses by the fantasies that have been plaguing him for weeks, and he’s beginning to think that he might have done better with one of those dull bonds books he’s barely cracked since moving to West Egg.  
“Good morning, old sport!”  
He closes his eyes and reflexively smiles into his book. He casually sips from his glass before turning to watch as Jay Gatsby strolls up to join him on the porch. “Good morning,” he finally replies, feigning calmness.  
If you were to ask, Nick most certainly doesn’t notice that Gatsby’s wearing blue today. Or how nicely the colour brings out his eyes. Or how charming his smile is. Not in the slightest. (He’s certain that his habit of practicing discretion regarding his romantic attachments is the only thing keeping him from swooning like the heroine of an overwrought romance novel.)  
“Lovely weather, isn’t it? Perfect day to get out of the house, wouldn’t you say, old sport?” he continues, taking a seat next to him.  
It is particularly nice out today — hardly a cloud in the sky, with a pleasantly cool breeze wafting in from the bay. That’s why Nick came outside in the first place, after all. “Couldn’t stand to sit inside on a day like this, and I thought I’d bring my reading with me,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his book.  
Gatsby takes a look at the cover. “You enjoy poetry, then?”  
“Every now and then.” He means to end there, but his mouth keeps going without his consent. “I was rather fond of it in college, and I suppose it brings back memories.”  
The other man nods thoughtfully, and it takes him a moment to respond. “Listen, old sport...I was planning to head into town today, and I was wondering if you would care to join me?”  
He doesn’t even have to consider it; he agrees almost immediately. Even if their last trip into town had directly led to his getting dragged into this madness about Daisy, he can’t bring himself to pass up a chance to spend time with his mysterious neighbour. Nick plans to join Gatsby next door in an hour, and with that, Gatsby takes his leave.

“So, old sport,” Gatsby says abruptly, fidgeting absently with his wine glass. “Aside from poetry, have you read anything interesting lately?”  
Nick is startled by the rapid subject change, and he nearly drops his fork. He thinks fast — he does usually keep a book in his desk at work to read during his lunch breaks. The most recent selection is one that was given to him by one of the secretaries, which apparently has been all the rage among women lately. It doesn’t have much literary merit as far as he can tell, but he’s fairly certain that Gatsby doesn’t have the time for much reading, so he probably won’t be familiar with the book anyway.  
“Well,” he begins hesitantly, “I don’t know whether you would be interested in what I’ve been reading lately; it’s one of those tragic love stories.”  
Gatsby looks at him with great interest from across the table, and it occurs to Nick that he can use the plot of the book as a way to voice all the criticisms he’s been holding back out of politeness. And possibly plant the idea of romantic entanglement with himself in the other man’s head, since he really can’t resist having the opportunity to do so and still have plausible deniability.  
“It’s about this woman who’s in love with two different men, and on one level it’s about this woman trying to choose which one would be better to spend her life with. The first man wants to change her, you see, and he essentially represents all sorts of harmful vices and so on, and the second man loves her just the way she is and wants her to change and grow naturally, rather than pretending to be someone she’s not in order to gain approval from people who don’t really care about her.” He pauses briefly, trying to remember the storyline, then quickly becomes animated again. “Unbeknownst to her, however, she’s also choosing between life and death. You see, if she chooses the man he thinks she wants, he is going to directly cause her premature death. But there is of course another option, which is obviously the better option. You see, she grew up with the other man, and they’ve been friends for as long as she can remember. He treats her well, he wants to make her happy, and perhaps most importantly, he’s not going to kill her.”  
“That all sounds rather melodramatic,” Gatsby says, eyes sparkling with mirth.  
Nick laughs at that. “Oh, it is. It would have been much less dramatic if the main character were capable of differentiating between obsession and love, but I suppose no one wants to read about two friends falling in love over time and growing old together in a cottage by the sea.” He pauses for a moment, then finishes his train of thought. “Although what makes for good literature rarely makes for good life choices.”  
“True,” Gatsby concedes, taking a sip of wine. “So, this story...how does it end?”  
“I’ve no idea. I haven’t finished it yet,” Nick explains. “I’m holding out hope that she comes to her senses and picks her friend, but since it’s a novel and not real life, I suppose she’ll marry the other man and die young in a terribly melodramatic scene where the author shows the consequences of obsessive love, or some such thing.”  
“I see,” the other man says with an air of amusement. “I’ll have to borrow this book of yours, old sport. It sounds terribly entertaining.”  
He doesn’t have time to respond before the waiter comes back with their entrees, and Gatsby starts rambling on about the finer points of French cuisine. Nick smiles and nods, vastly preferring to concentrate on the coq au vin than on analysing what Gatsby’s rambling and frequent subject changes could possibly mean.

Nick returns home that evening still completely mystified by that afternoon’s events. For the most part, Nick had enjoyed himself much more than he had on their previous excursion, although he had gotten the distinct impression that Gatsby was dancing around some subject or another. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was, though, and the only halfway relevant thing Nick had managed to get out of him was that Gatsby had been distracted lately and was taking time to think about things, and won’t you have another drink, old sport?  
Perhaps Daisy threw him over, Nick muses uncharitably, although he’s fairly certain that Gatsby would have spent the day sulking if she had. Besides, taking time to think about things rather implied to him that it was of Gatsby’s own doing.  
After nearly an hour of this sort of rumination, Nick eventually concludes that he doesn’t know enough about his neighbour to make an educated guess. He assumes that if it is important, or if it involves him, he will eventually find out what exactly Gatsby was being so evasive about.  
But if Nick has to hear about whatever it is from Jordan Baker, he is going to seriously consider moving out to California.


End file.
